


Staying Constant

by SylphOfPaperPlanes



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Future Hurt/Comfort, M/M, PTSD, RvBSecretSanta2014, Super Adorable Dad Tucker, Thunderstorms, Veterans
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2014-12-22
Packaged: 2018-03-02 22:03:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2827631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SylphOfPaperPlanes/pseuds/SylphOfPaperPlanes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He had always considered the ghosts of his past to be the sound of gunfire and the brush of harsh wind along his scalp. Ghosts were his little flashbacks and flashbangs. The way his hands hesitated while holding a kitchen knife over onions. The army fatigues hanging in his closet and the few people he stayed in touch with.<br/>The man he knew as Washington, standing before him, was no apparition.<br/>---<br/>AU in which the Reds, Blues, and Freelancers all fought alongside each other in the military, and what comes after. </p><p>Tucker had gotten his life together after he came home. A nice (if tiny) apartment, a decently paying job, and a son who he loves more than anyone. Things couldn't get much better, and he could almost forget the blur that was service.<br/>Sometimes you don't go to find the past. The past comes to find you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Staying Constant

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! This fic was written for the RvB 2014 Secret Santa, or more specifically, the lovely Suckitredteam on tumblr (Their current holiday url is Suckitredandgreenteam)! I hope you have the best holiday possible, Ska!  
> (I'm sorry if I took some liberties with the AU you described, I couldn't help but run with it!)

There are few things that stay constant in the hustle and bustle New York City.

One of which is the noise.

Through the small windows of the studio apartment, Tucker caught the sounds of cars and the repeating pattern of the rain. It bounced around the room carefully, gliding over the small kitchenette (which he could just barely keep clean between meals) and the table for two (which was rarely clean, nowadays). Even through the thin walls, he could hear his neighbor’s music as it vibrated the rug-covered floors in it’s muted glory.

Tucker couldn’t remember the last time silence settled fully over his apartment, much less the entire city. Hours spent half asleep were complemented by the steady breaths of Junior, nestled in his crib nearby, the clunky sound of the heater, the wheels of a car along the road outside. Total quiet was like a stray cat that had once slept at the foot of his bed but now could only be seen out of the corner of his eye.

Even now, as Tucker sat across from the television and mid-afternoon rain attacked the windows, he felt at ease with the buzz of the city. Junior lay curled up, fast asleep on the couch beside him while he played another round of some violent video game on mute. He didn’t really care which it was, and all the FPSs had started blending together to him. (In the sense that every little thing was somehow inaccurate or the gameplay was too jittery.)

It tends to happen when you spend a year and a half in a war zone.

It’d been eleven months back in the “normal world” as he had called it. Sometimes, he would give anything to get those eighteen months of his old life back. Other times, he would give anything to live in the bliss of the present. No half-home studio apartment in the heart of New York's most artsy district could blur away what happened. Sometimes, it was hard to avoid what was in front of him, even if he was imagining it.

He was better now. He’d worked hard enough for it.

Thumbs stilled on the controls after he paused it, half sick and tired of the repetitive shake of the camera, half unnerved by the headache that burned behind his forehead. Some part of him was dreading the moment that he would blink, and he’d be back in the middle of a war he wanted no part in. His eyes flickered over to where Junior lay (still asleep, thank god). The cocoon of blankets that surrounded him were enough to hide all but his face while tiny arms and feet moved minutely under the mass of covers. The kid was one of the few things that could ground him at the first threat of an attack.

Tucker barely felt his cool palms rest on his face in relief.

His therapist had told him everything he needed to know and more about the aftereffects of war. There was a usual starter pack forced into his hands (medication, a suggestion for a guide dog, and the worryingly vague promise that “things will get better eventually”) and a weight on his shoulders.

Over the months, the sound of the car horns slowly stopped being akin to explosions, and the ache between his shoulderblades could be attributed to a not-quite-soft mattress rather than curling up in fear.

Between an eerily bombshell burst of thunder and the steady radio static of his neighbor’s music, Tucker almost didn’t hear the doorbell.

Okay, so he didn’t hear it the first time.

Or the second.

But the third time, he was snapped sharply out of his reverie when Junior squirmed and shifted in his transition to the waking world. The child was swiftly picked up and held tightly against his father’s chest, still loosely wrapped in a blanket.  The soft footfalls crossed the carpet alongside the fourth ring of the doorbell before Tucker undid the deadbolt and swung the door open.

He had always considered the ghosts of his past to be the sound of gunfire and the brush of harsh wind along his scalp. Ghosts were his little flashbacks and flashbangs. The way his hands hesitated while holding a kitchen knife over onions. The army fatigues hanging in his closet and the few people he stayed in touch with.

The man he knew as Washington, standing before him, was no apparition. Though his eyes were as empty as a specters (save the exhaustion that etched them in dark circles), he was real. The way his uniform clung to his shoulders and how a duffel bag was gripped tightly in one hand outright screamed _“jet lag”_ and _“just released from service”_.

Tucker appeared not to be the only one surprised. Wash immediately seemed to stare at the child on the other’s hip, and then behind them into the apartment. It wasn’t exactly a normal sight, with some children’s toys scattered across the floor and a hyper-violent game paused on the screen.

They didn’t exchange any pleasantries. It wasn’t like they’d shared them fighting a war together half way across the war.

“You have a kid.”

“You’re back from service.” Tucker let the words drop and stepped back into the room, expecting his guest to follow. While he heard footsteps enter the room and the front door close softly, he dropped a half-awake Junior in his crib and filled a glass of water from the sink in the kitchenette.

In the same movement, he handed the cup to Wash at his perch on the couch and turned off the television before falling onto the sofa himself. He wasn’t sure if it was numbness keeping him from breaking down, or if he could actually deal with one of his few friends from the army arriving so unexpectedly.

He took a light breath, feeling his face slip into a small smile. “So, what brought you to New York? Thought you’d lived in Seattle.”

“I did.” The answer was brief and choppy as his toes nudged the duffle bag at his feet. A small sip of the water. “Nothing there for me now, and I couldn’t really think of anywhere else to go.”

“Can I ask the burning question?” A beat of silence that he took as confirmation. “How the hell did you find my address? Not to be rude, but I haven’t spoken to you since the day I left.”

Wash nodded his head towards the wall that lightly shook with the thrum of the neighbor’s music. “Grif told me you were neighbors with his sister. Also, you’re down the block from Maine. Small world I guess.”

He only groaned and rested his face in both hands. “Maine’s been a pretty dent babysitter once or twice. And how did you manage to get Kaikaina’s address?”

“She sent me one or two invites to her holiday party last year.”

“You were practically on the other side of the world.”

“When has that ever stopped her from- Wait.” the skin between Wash’s eyebrows crinkled slightly and the faintest hints of a smile haunted his lips. “Did you say Maine babysat? _The Meta_ took care of your anklebiter?”

A nod was given in response. Tucker could guess how big of a deal this was; Breaking out the old nicknames meant business. The hulking mass of a man was surprisingly gentle and careful when he cared for Junior, the way a third grader might cradle a baby bird. “It’s kind of endearing.”

The image of a warm and tender Maine seemed to lighten the mood and Wash’s demeanor considerably. He dared to drown the rest of the glass in a sip, and set it onto the coffee table. The two of them could almost forget what they’d left behind.

“Is it just you, watching the kid?”

“Yeah, actually.” Tucker rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, leaning back into the couch and glancing over to where Junior had fallen asleep again. The delicate rise and fall of his chest was a comforting companion to his heartbeat. “You won’t believe it, but he’s adopted. Little guy needed a place that he would get the love he deserves, and I think I would have gone crazy without him around.”

Wash shook his head, obviously trying to justify the connection between the two’s appearances. “Have you taken a paternity test?”

“Three, trust me. Everyone always says that we look alike. The best reactions are when I’ll take him to shoots, and everyone always coos over the hot single dad.” His signature cocky smile reappeared on his face before he registered the confusion on the other’s. “By the way, I’m a photographer. I make pretty good bank, and it’s one of the few jobs that I get to stare at hot chicks.” A pause. “And guys.”

The two had to laugh at that as they fell back into the old patterns of friendship. Only now could small talk bloom with words about the weather and various anecdotes about photo shoots and the plane ride to New York. Their voices never climbed above a calm murmur, and even when Tucker carefully picked his way across the toy-strewn floor to get a beer for the other, he still checked on Junior (Who was, notably, sleeping as deep as a child could be.)

Wash’s fingers closed around the can, opening the tab in an automated motion. “How old is he?” He asked with a tilt of his head toward the crib.

“About fourteen months now. I can’t get over how fast he’s grown.” Tucker tried to ignore how he’s forgotten a drink for himself, and how he honestly didn’t think he wanted one. To be honest, he didn’t think he could swallow a sip with how much he was smiling.

“Is he a handful?”

The words were casual conversation and even paired with a long drink from his beer, but it didn’t have the same impact on the other. A moment of silence fell over the two of them. “Yeah... It’s kind of hard to find a babysitter. Junior’s good with people, but it doesn’t mean I can bring him to every photo shoot. It’s just not how a kid is supposed to be raised, y’know?”

Tucker wouldn’t say that there was silence at that moment. Rain dashed the windows with its loud drops smattering along the glass, and the music on the other side of the walls crescendoed before it faded to its old bass-filled blur.

A crack of thunder spoke before either of them did.

“I mean, I could watch him, too.” Wash eventually said, suddenly very interested in the label of the now-empty can. “I’ll start looking for apartments or something, and when everything’s sorted out-”

The sound of a quiet cry cut him off, and Tucker didn’t wait to hear the rest of it before rushing over and picking up a fully awake Junior. Quelling him was easy enough; hushed mumbles and rocking the child back and forth to the beat of the storm outside eased the whimpers down into a happy hum and the occasional garble of babytalk syllables. Itty bitty hands reached for Tucker’s hair while he studied the light that seemed to hide behind dark irises. He couldn’t describe in words how amazing it was to be able to see the wonder that lit up the kid’s face. They were the least traditional family he could ever imagine, but Tucker wouldn’t trade it for anything imaginable.

He turned around, nearly forgetting he had company of any kind, only to find Wash with an expression of pure joy spread across his features. Like a lighthouse in the middle of a snowy winter, there was no specter-esque hollowness to his eyes.

The parent sat down beside him, placing Junior between the two. No one attempted to hide their laughter as the baby reached for Wash’s hands, immediately transfixed with the calloused fingers.

“I could definitely use your help.” Tucker said, not taking his sight off of his son. “And you’re welcome to stay here. How does the saying go? My couch is your couch, or something like that.”

“I’d like that.” Washington glanced around the apartment. He could just imagine the number of times he’d trip over the seemingly endless blankets and kids toys. He could practically see the mornings making coffee in a cramped, tiny kitchen.

He could see himself moving on from what used to be.

“I’d like that a lot.”

 


End file.
